


these are the things that could make us official

by bensolosredemption



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Ben Solo, Awkward Romance, Bad Cooking, Ben is a mama's boy, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Neighbors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2020-10-21 15:34:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20695886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bensolosredemption/pseuds/bensolosredemption
Summary: “Hey, Ben,” she says as she stuffs her iPhone back into her purse slung over her shoulder, shooting him a dazzling smile that causes Ben to almost step backward, down the flight of stairs he just climbed. A trip to the hospital wouldn’t be the most ideal way to spend the rest of his day.This would be a great time to speak, Ben.or, Ben doesn't quite know how to act around his newly moved-in neighbor, Rey.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! This is my first story for this fandom—I declared myself a full-on Reylo immediately after TLJ so here I am! I've been wanting to write something for a while now but haven't gained the courage until now—leave comments, kudos, etc. Anything is appreciated. 
> 
> The title is from Charli XCX's song 'Official' which I'm obsessed with at the moment. It gave off such domestic fluff vibes so naturally I had to write a fluffy fic about it. This is meant to be totally self-indulgent and not really angsty at all because I'm completely selfish. There will be more to this so watch this space and my Twitter @redeembensolo. :)
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading!

New York wasn’t for the simple minded. It was constantly vibrating, people scrambling to their next destination, desperate to get there on time. Horns blaring, sirens ringing, locals shouting. Time never stood still. Sometimes, it was too much for Ben. He wondered about life in the countryside—what it could be like without the commotion of an angered neighbor or the stench of week-old piss staining the sidewalk just outside his window. 

He vowed to himself numerous times throughout the day he’d move away, perhaps past the outskirts of the city, miles from the sounds of all the hustle and bustle. He’d always wanted to have his own garage, a place to work, create, and craft his woodwork. Ben wouldn’t claim himself a skilled carpenter but he recently built a bookshelf for his mother that she seemed to like well enough. It hadn’t collapsed under the weight of her many thick-binded books yet and he considered that an achievement within itself. 

These are things he thinks about when he’s on his lunch break. Today, it’s a turkey and cheese sandwich on wheat bread—his mother insists he needs to eat healthier so he assumes more grain is a better alternative than his usual brioche bun. He’s found it a bit easier to listen to her as he’s gotten older. Just like any other fickle teenage boy, he wanted to defy her, argue any chance he got—all due to his desire to be grown up. But now he’s 30 and life is short—too short to fight with his once-in-a-lifetime mother because he fancies a more fattening piece of bread over the healthier option. 

Just like any other day, he eats alone, away from his chatty co-workers. He works for a construction company, building and remodeling office workspaces for growing businesses within the New York City area—as if it needed any more skyscrapers infecting its already crowded space. But it was work either way, allowing Ben the opportunity to use his hands and build things. He was always much better putting the pieces together rather than engaging in more sentimental work. He keeps to himself, wanting little to do with small talk—the question of what he does on the weekends for fun or his favorite hobby really left him reeling. Ben liked his solitude, the silence that came with it and the peace it brought him despite the aching feeling that sometimes overwhelmed his chest when he’d excessively think about what it’d be like to call up a friend and just simply laugh. 

It was 1:03 P.M. His lunch break was over and the work day halfway done. He could already hear the excited ranting of Poe Dameron yards away, most likely bragging about his latest conquest. Dameron tended to do that—pick up willing women on a night out and send them on their way in the wee hours of the morning. Although Ben understood the unbridled attention Dameron got from women—he was charismatic, charming, relatively handsome, and _occasionally_ funny—he didn’t get the idea of spending one night only with a girl and never seeing them again. 

Ben tried to stray away from romance, it never seemed to work well for him—the last relationship he’d ever been in was nearly seven years ago with Bazine. She wasn’t particularly fond of him in the ways she was to him—he admired her tenacity, intelligence, and dry wit. She swore she loved his full hair and broad shoulders. But then she claimed he was too nice, something he never believed himself to be—apparently he became a bit too corny, a bit too sentimental. So naturally, Ben walked away from that, dated every so often with no hope for a good outcome, and lived a casually single life. He was happy enough—his mother called him every weekend and he had a dog that kept him company on the couch when he decided to finish binge watching the latest season of _Mindhunter_. But there was always something missing—what it was, Ben couldn’t figure it out.

* * *

Ben’s body ached. They had spent the last four hours demolishing the back wall of their latest remodeling project all while listening to Dameron ramble for majority of it. Ben has known the man for almost three years but his tolerance for him has grown thin. Once again, he had to shoot down his inevitable invitation for a night out with the rest of the guys—Dameron claimed he could find Ben a guaranteed lay for the night but as always, he respectively declined. It’s become a game between the two of them but Ben likes to think he always wins. He’s vowed to himself to never take advice on women from Dameron, the man can barely keep a woman in his bed for more than five hours—that’s not even the recommended eight-hour sleep time. 

As Ben enters his apartment building and trudges up the stairway, he hears laughter from the floor above. When he reaches his hall, he discovers his newly moved-in neighbor, excitedly chatting on the phone with, who seemed to be, someone she knows extremely well. Her name’s Rey and Ben remembers their introduction like it was yesterday—her warm smile and outstretched hand, offering a welcoming shake laced with kindness that Ben wasn’t entirely used to. 

People didn’t show him warmth, often shying away from his intimidating form—he’s too tall and bulky, instilling a sense of fear in others who are within close proximity. That’s why he likes being hidden, away from the attention of his nosy co-workers and into the secluded corner where everything’s quiet. But Rey didn’t seem afraid of him, she shook his hand, and began animatedly telling him a story about how she just finished unpacking all her plants and needed another shelf to make room for them all. Her old apartment—_excuse me_—”flat” in Queens had so much more space, she was able to arrange all her greenery in an aesthetically pleasing manner that made for perfect Instagram photos. Although she insisted that she wasn’t obsessed with social media, claiming it was mentally toxic—she still browses it occasionally and admitted it was nice to post a pretty picture every once in a while. 

It was the most Ben had ever adamantly listened to someone in months. Everything she said was enthralling—he had no idea what Instagram was but he would’ve listened to her talk about it all day in her soft, lilting British accent that seemed so fitting for a worldly New York City resident. When she finally paused to take a breath, Ben stood there dumbfounded and Rey most likely took that as her cue to go—probably leaving to tend to her ever-growing plant storage dilemma. Now she’s here again, standing in front of her apartment door, saying her goodbyes to the person on the other end of the phone, and noticing him at the top of the stairs, staring at her like an absolute lovesick lunatic. 

“Hey, Ben,” she says as she stuffs her iPhone back into her purse slung over her shoulder, shooting him a dazzling smile that causes Ben to almost step backward, down the flight of stairs he just climbed. A trip to the hospital wouldn’t be the most ideal way to spend the rest of his day. 

_This would be a great time to speak, Ben._

“Hey,” Ben finally brings himself to answer, the word coming out like a choke, coughing it up like he almost forgot to breathe. 

“Long day at work?” She inquires with an engaging smile, all soft pink lips and slightly crinkled eyes. She really is so pretty—Ben can affirm that. 

“Y-yeah. Long,” Ben replies dumbly, as if he had just learned how to talk properly for the first time in his life. It’s not that he doesn’t speak to women often—he’s discussed things with his mother, the barista at Starbucks, and his doctor—maybe it was the fact that Rey was attractive and looked like she smelled like clean laundry. She made him nervous and things rarely made Ben nervous. He didn’t even get scared when he had to present a 30-minute long slideshow during one of his college courses. But for some reason, the prospect of a young twenty-something woman, making conversation about his work day made his palms sweat and his heart leap. It all seemed insane to him. 

He realizes he’s left an awkward silence dangle between them and rushes to fix it. 

“H-how was your day?” 

_Goddammit, Ben, stop stuttering._

“Oh, it was okay. You know, long. Busy,” Rey pauses, like she’s thinking carefully before saying anything else. She’s probably creeped out by him, a large, blubbering man longingly staring at her in the hallway of their apartment complex. Maybe that’s his sign to check out, maybe even move out to give her a sense of security that he’ll never cross her path again. 

Ben’s too busy wallowing in his self pity to realize she just asked him a question. 

“Sorry, what?” He questions. 

_Great, now you probably look like an absolute ass. Can’t even pay attention to her when she’s asking you a question. Maybe that’s why you’re still single, you–_

“Do you always pack your lunch?” She gestures to his black lunch sack. It’s not nearly as fancy as some of the small heavy duty coolers he saw at the store. 

“Yeah, I do,” Ben says as he slightly lifts up the bag. “My mother hounds me about eating healthier. Says it’s better to pack a lunch than eating out.” 

The words spill out of him like a volcano—it’s probably the most he’s said to her in the past month and the topic is his mother’s insistent healthy habits, as if that makes for a great conversation with a beautiful woman. But before he can overthink his poor choice of discussion, Rey is smiling and it’s not a sad, sympathetic smile, it’s a kind, warm smile that reaches her hazel eyes. 

There’s a slight crinkle of her nose and tiny snicker when she says, “That’s sweet.”

Ben doesn’t know what to do with that comment. He’s been known to overthink things, worry about the smallest inconveniences like not getting the correct dog food and changing an entire outfit when it doesn’t quite match up to how he imagined it would. But this—_"That’s sweet”_—has brought a whole new meaning to overthinking, paranoia, and everything in between. 

“She can be a bit… much. Sometimes,” Ben answers, when he finally decides to shut off his over-talkative brain.

“She cares. That’s what mums are for,” she quips back. “And you listen, which means you care too. You can’t fool me.”

_Is she… teasing me?_

“Y-yeah, I guess so,” Ben laughs, running his free hand through his hair, a nervous tick he picked up during his years of ruthless adolescence. Now he can’t seem to shake it. 

“Does she teach you healthy cooking habits as well? Like for all your meals?”

“She does, actually. She gave me this whole cookbook for Christmas a couple years ago,” Ben chuckles under his breath. Leia watched with anticipation when he unwrapped the gift then cheerfully explained how he’d finally be able to cook for himself instead of lazily Postmating from his favorite Italian restaurant. She didn’t understand that pasta was an adequate dish for every meal of the day. 

“Have you cooked any yet?” Rey’s looking at him fondly now—or at least he thinks that’s fondness. It could just be her being nice—she’s naturally kind after all. Kind enough to listen to him speak about Leia’s forlorn cookbook gift. She’s a saint, really.

“A few, yeah. Would be a waste if I didn’t,” Ben goes on. “Plus, she’d know. She’s like that.”

“So you’re not gonna be opening up your own restaurant anytime soon?”

He snickers. “I don’t know, I think I’m pretty good. I made a mean chicken parmesan the other night. The healthy version, of course. I only barely burnt the pasta.” 

Ben doesn’t know where this sudden confidence is coming from. Maybe it’s her sunshine-filled demeanor or her welcoming grin but she’s comforting—it makes him want to talk to her for hours, days, maybe even years. That’s only if she’ll listen—he won’t force her to endure years of frivolous conversation especially with him. 

“You’ll have to show me sometime. Prove yourself.”

Ben almost chokes on his tongue. 

_Did she just say what I think she just said?_

“Er—yeah, yeah! S-sure. I can prove that… to y-you,” Ben stammers, sounding like an utter moron in the process.

Rey flashes him a knowing smirk, pulling the keys to her apartment out of her purse, most likely getting ready to head inside and text her friends about her blubbering idiot neighbor who can’t form a coherent sentence. 

He wouldn’t blame her—Ben isn’t the most graceful of men. He doesn’t live a fairly eventful life—it mostly consists of early bedtimes, book reading, and gym workouts. To think a girl like Rey—sunny, bright, gorgeous—would even give him the time of day surprises him. 

She turns to him before Ben can get sucked deeper into his traitorous mind.

“Friday night good? I can come around at like seven.” 

“W-what?”

“For dinner. You know, so you can prove your award-winning cooking skills?” She offers him an open but shy grin. 

_Am I dreaming?_

“Y-yes! Yeah! Of course, yes. S-seven is good… great, even.” 

_Jesus, cool it, Ben._

“Okay, cool,” Rey giggles as she opens her apartment door, giving him one last smile before leaving him there in the hallway, dumbstruck and scrambling on how to best perfect his chicken parmesan recipe.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long but I couldn't leave people hanging! So here it is—the final part to my first mini fic. :) I hope you all like it, it was a lot of fun for me to write a little something to kind of get my creative juices flowing. Also I gave my first attempt at smut—it's very minimal and awkward so, sorry to disappoint. But I tried, lmao. Hopefully I can get better at it over time. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think. :)

It’s his third attempt at cooking the chicken and he’s botched it… again. 

He should’ve never bragged about these—what did Rey call them?—“award-winning cooking skills” because the devastating truth was, they didn’t exist. Yeah, he’d made himself that delightful chicken parm a couple weeks ago but it was pure luck it didn’t end up in the trashcan soon after. Also, it was evident he couldn’t consume cereal for the fourth night in a row—his mother would definitely agree. He figured he’d crack open that cookbook, its binding still stiff from newness, and give adulting a shot. But now it’s backfired on him—he’s somehow finangled himself a date, at least he thinks that’s what it is, with his pretty neighbor and he can’t cook for shit. 

Ben scrapes the remaining burnt bits of his failed masterpiece into the trash and readies himself for another grocery trip. The lady at the register must think he’s some kind of pasta addict—and come to think of it, that might not be far from the truth. 

“I _know_, okay? Stop looking at me like that.” Ben’s tired of the looks Chewie’s giving him. The brown goldendoodle he adopted last year isn’t always the most supportive companion—he swears the dog has a very advanced mind. The judgemental stares he’s given are proof enough. 

“Be good, I’ll be back. I’m gonna get this right, just watch,” Ben confidently says to Chewie before stepping out into the hallway and locking the front door to his apartment. He’s certain if dogs could roll their eyes, his would. 

While he ponders his dog’s lowly opinion of him, he’s suddenly struck with an enthusiastic shout. 

“Ben!” It’s Rey, steadily holding onto her laundry basket full of her newly washed clothes. Ben tries to even out his breathing and actually look her in the eyes like a grown man.

_What’s there to be afraid of?_

Her smile blinds him—white teeth, soft lips, and tender eyes—as wavy hair messily falls from her bun. Warmth radiates around her and Ben wants nothing more than to engulf her in an embrace—she could be his own personal space heater on the winter nights when his furnace decides to act up.

_What’s there to be afraid of, you ask? Absolutely everything._

“Are you gonna wow me tomorrow night?” 

“What?” Ben sputters, like he’s drowning in the thought of what “wow” could possibly entail. 

“For dinner? We’re still on for tomorrow, right?” She seems uncertain now, anxiousness flashes across her face. Ben wants to wipe it away immediately. She has no reason to be unsure, Ben would cross oceans for her, make her tea, and write sonnets dedicated to her. He’d even water all those plants she’s so passionate about. 

“Of course! Yeah, no. I was just… going out to get the ingredients, actually,” he bashfully confesses.

“Good. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Really?”

_Could you sound anymore desperate?_

Ben attempts to pull back, perhaps maybe he’s laying it on too thick. Maybe this was meant to be just a simple hang out, a chance for her to get a home-cooked meal without the hassle of making it herself—but Ben finds it hard to believe she’d willingly use him like that. She comes across fiercely independent, if her very forward invitation to his place is any indication. 

“Yeah. No one’s ever made me dinner before,” she pauses, flashes him a convincing smirk, and continues, “well, if you count my friend heating up a frozen dinner for me the other night then, I guess, maybe I have.” 

Giggles erupt in the back of her throat, as if there was an anecdote meant to go along with that slightly revealing detail. Ben longs to know more but before he’s able to pry any further, sparing himself any type of rejection, he decides to keep the conversation flowing. 

“This will be much better than a frozen dinner, I can assure you.”

“I have high expectations. Don’t let me down, Ben,” she playfully retorts before opening the door to her apartment and leaving him gobsmacked in the hallway. 

He has to make this good or his subconscious will never let him hear the end of it.

* * *

It was the fourth shirt he’d tried on. This time, it was a navy blue henley—he’d had it for a while but his previous girlfriend always liked him in it, fawning over his arms straining the fabric. But the last thing Ben wanted to think about during his date with Rey was his ex-girlfriend—so off the shirt went. He didn’t need any unwanted distractions, he had to be on his A-game tonight—and if a simple outfit change did that, so be it. 

Eventually, he settles on a red flannel. Simple. Casual but not too casual that it comes across like he doesn’t care. Because he does care, quite a lot actually—perhaps a bit too much, so much so that he’s anxiously fiddling with the front buttons, struggling to do them up properly with shaky fingers. 

It’s been a while since Ben’s dated. He finds the whole process too daunting. The idea of making awkward small talk and possibly embarrassing himself in front of pretty women isn’t his favorite thing in the world. But with Rey, he feels differently. There’s excitement racing through his body, flutters in his stomach—he refuses to refer to them as “butterflies” because only little schoolboys act that soft—and he aches with the need to impress her. “Wow” her, as she so fittingly put it. 

He’s been practicing diligently, attempting to perfect a recipe he’s only succeeded making once. But once Ben sets his mind to something, there’s no turning back. He’s going to give Rey the best chicken parm she’s ever tasted. 

Thirty minutes later, he wishes he didn’t go into this so confidently. Because now, the chicken is charred to bits, smoke is enveloping his small kitchen, and Rey will be knocking on his door in a matter of seconds. 

He tries his best to fan the billowy smoke away from the alarm—the last thing he needed was for an entire building evacuation all because of his inability to cook two chicken breasts. Luckily, his six-foot-two frame and newly purchased dish towels are able to reach high enough to adequately wave it away. 

He doesn’t even have time to stress about the lack of edible food when there’s a sudden knock at the door. 

_Shit. Fuck. Shit._

She’s here and he’s fucked. 

And so is the food. 

Not to mention there’s still a decent amount of smoke wafting through the room—oxygen is always ideal during a first date but Ben can’t even provide that.

In his panicky state, he quickly drops the burnt chicken along with the pan into the sink— sizzles, smoke, and all. 

_Fuck it_, he thinks. _Just like everything else, you screw it all up._

She knocks once more, a bit more timid this time, perhaps afraid he forgot about their scheduled rendezvous. A part of him wishes he did, just to spare himself the inevitable humiliation. 

He takes a deep breath before opening the door and coming face to face with a real-life angel, he thinks. She’s donning a bit of makeup—but not too much that it blocks out her sun-kissed freckles. Her lashes are longer, coated in light mascara, skin dewy and begging to be touched. Her frilly off-the-shoulder blouse makes Ben’s mouth dry while her jeans hugged her curves in all the right places. She’s out of his league and if she hasn’t recognized that yet, she’ll find out in approximately five milliseconds. 

Her bright smile is suddenly replaced by confusion when she notices the smoke seeping out of the kitchen to his left. 

“Is everything alright?” She must also see distress all over his face. This wasn’t how Ben had planned this night to go. If he was the naturally suave casanova like Dameron, Rey would already be in his bed, unable to resist his dazzling smile and sweet nothings. 

Instead, he’s scrambling to the kitchen sink, dousing the burning entree to avoid any further fire hazard. 

He feels her presence in the kitchen and the warm humiliation rises to his face. Red-faced and mortified, Ben finally turns to face her. She’s trying her absolute hardest not to laugh out loud, hand covering her mouth, grin barely shielded behind it. 

“Better than a frozen dinner, huh?” 

Ben lightly snickers as he shakes his head, feeling the hot mortification inside him dissipate. Rey moves closer to him, investigating the aftermath of his unsuccessful dinner attempt. 

“You practically killed the poor bird again,” she giggles—and Ben would do just about anything to bottle up that sound and keep it forever. 

“I think you may have overestimated my cooking skills,” he reluctantly replies, offering her an apologetic look. 

She laughs again causing Ben’s stomach to swoop, his aching need to scoop her up and bask in her warmth taking over. 

“Seems like I have,” she eyes him, her grin widening the longer her gaze lingers. “But it’s nothing pizza can’t solve, right?” 

Ben nods fervently as he pulls out his phone to place an order. There’s still time for this night to be saved.

* * *

He orders a pizza for each of them. For Rey, pineapple, pepperoni, sausage, and extra cheese. For Ben, olives, mushrooms, and banana peppers. 

Now they’re settled on his plush sofa, sharing a bottle of wine, and watching trashy reality TV because Rey insisted—she declared he hadn’t lived until he witnessed the ridiculousness of _Love Island_. Frankly, Ben doesn’t get it. Their accents are all muddled together and he can barely understand anything they’re saying. He begged Rey to turn on the subtitles so he could actually follow along. 

But if he’s being honest, he’s not giving it his utmost attention. He’s more focused on Rey’s closeness—she’s sitting cross legged, shoes abandoned somewhere by the door, and her slender jean-clad thigh occasionally brushes up against his own. Every once in awhile she’ll touch his forearm—he’s rolled up his sleeves to avoid pizza sauce stains—or playfully swat his leg when he says something sarcastic. 

He feels like he’s winning for once—and Ben rarely ever wins.

Ben has found out that Rey is a very multifaceted person—but of course she would be, she’s practically the perfect specimen. She currently works as a daycare provider, taking care of toddlers while their parents are off to work in the morning. Her face lights up talking about the reckless abandon of tiny four-year-olds learning their shapes and colors. She also volunteers at the local animal shelter on the weekends. The coos she emitted over his dog were a clear indication over her passion for animals—surprisingly Chewie warmed up to her with no problem. Ben equates it to gaining his parents’ approval and unsurprisingly she passes with flying colors. He also makes a mental note over her love for cats and wanting to adopt one—_“I want to name it Olive. Not because I like olives but I just really think it would suit a cat.”_

_Give her whatever she wants_, he secretly demands. _No one should deny her anything._

In exchange, he tells her the basics of his life, purposely omits his lack of social life. She seems to find him endearing though, following up his self-deprecating humor with subtle compliments, and showing genuine interest in his mundane hobbies. He never thought people cared much about his next potential woodworking project—but Rey exudes a different kind of wonder when he mentions it. _“You_ have _to make me something. I do need another shelf for all my mini plants,”_ she gently requests. Ben’s already planning to build her the most extravagant shelf she’s ever seen, intricately designed, and definitely overkill. 

After Rey’s fourth slice of pizza and second glass of wine, she gets more touchy, inching closer to his left side, head momentarily laying on his shoulder when he makes a funny remark. Ben can feel his body temperature rising, reacting to every caress, every brush of her hand. The more he actively tries not to get aroused, the harder his dick gets. He curses his manly urges as he struggles to adjust himself without making her suspicious. He’d rather not abruptly end this wonderful night on a bad note—Rey stomping off, proclaiming him a pervert and vowing to never speak to him again, leaving him half hard and lonely.

The television still plays in the background, the contestants taking part in some cheesy challenge to win a private date. Ben can’t imagine going on a show like this to find love. Doing it in real life is difficult enough but displaying his awkwardness in front of a nationwide audience? He’d rather eat glass, if he’s being honest. 

While Ben is concocting images of him on a horrid reality show, Rey’s hand ventures up to the back of his neck, fingers running through his dark locks. Ben stills, panic racing through his veins—no one’s touched him with this much affection in a long time.

“Thank you for dinner,” she says, continuing to scratch at the base of his scalp. Ben will fall asleep if she keeps doing that, the action so soothing and reminiscent of his mother putting his toddler-self down for a nap. 

“I didn’t even cook,” Ben shakes his head. “Sorry again, by the way. I know you expected a home-cooked meal.”

“Ben, it’s fine. This was nice,” she reassures him, a look of contentment written all over her face. 

She takes a big breath before speaking again. “I actually just wanted to get to know you more than anything, to be honest.” Suddenly, she shows slight embarrassment, color rising to her cheeks and Ben almost drops to his knees. 

This girl—this wonderful, gorgeous, witty, intelligent, caring, kindhearted woman—wanted to get to know _him_? He’s certain whatever higher power exists is playing a prank on him. 

“Get to know me?” Ben questions, filled with awe.

“I mean, I thought it was obvious,” she bats her eyelashes, giggling out of nervousness. “I’ve been wanting to ask you out for, like, _ever_.”

Ben nearly chokes on his own tongue—not to mention his mouth is achingly dry and he finds it hard to swallow. Yeah, God, Buddha, or _whoever_ is _definitely_ fucking with him. 

“I never would’ve guessed that,” Ben mutters, trying his best not to sound too self-loathing. 

“Well, I’m glad I didn’t seem _too_ desperate,” she says, eyes crinkling from her quiet smile as she lays the side of her head on top of the couch.

Ben realizes she’s still massaging his scalp and he practically purrs like a cat, eyes barely remaining open. He suspects the little bit of alcohol is causing her to be this bold. There’s no way she’d touch you this intimately while completely sober, Ben’s traitorous brain reminds him. 

Before he has time to pull back from her, Rey makes another daring confession.

“I really like you, Ben,” she’s staring at him now, trying to gage his reaction. Her statement holds so much weight. 

Shock overcomes him—Ben’s positive his mouth has been agape for more than five minutes and he looks like some ridiculous trout. 

“Y-you do?” He finally grows the balls in order to speak actual words—it’s a miracle that they’re English rather than some made up gibberish. 

Rey lets out a snort, a noise that should be unattractive and unladylike—but to Ben, it’s the most adorable thing in the world. He decides then and there, he’s going to hold onto her and never let go.

“Yeah. I do,” she replies with utmost certainty, moving her soft fingertips to the stubble lining his jaw, her face filled with utter fascination. Ben’s body reacts the only way it knows how—blood rushing to his crotch, begging for attention. 

There’s a warmth in Rey’s eyes—but also a request, one she’s yearning for Ben to recognize. He can tell by the way she softly bats her lashes, flips her hair over her shoulder, continuing the gentle caress to his jawline. He wants his lips on hers—he’s been dreaming about it ever since he first saw her.

“C-can I kiss you?” Ben wants to slap himself silly. 

_Can you say one thing to her without stuttering like an idiot?_

But Rey doesn’t seem to mind, or even notice. Instead, she lets out an innocent giggle, nods her head, and the distance between them disappears. Her lips are on his without much warning. He feels everything—soft, plush, and warm. There’s a bit of stickiness from her lip gloss, along with the flavor of pineapple pizza, and red wine—Ben tastes it all and wants to forever. He feels her smile against his mouth, and he’s sure this is heaven—a beautiful woman enjoying a shared kiss with him and not rearing back in disgust. 

The kiss lasts for an eternity—at least that’s what it feels like to him—until they finally pull apart. Rey’s looking at him like he’s a tree she wants to climb—and Ben might just let her. But that doesn’t stop his paranoid brain. 

_She’s drunk and you’re taking advantage of her, you absolute prick. _

_She deserves respect. She’s going to think you only want her for sex. _

_Stop this now before it goes too far._

Ben licks his lips, savoring the taste of her faint cherry-flavored lip gloss. He catches Rey’s quick glance at his mouth, and his cock throbs—_why must this be so hard?_

“R-rey—wait, hold on,” Ben eases back gently as she goes in for another heated kiss.

Hurt immediately flashes across her face and Ben’s heart drops.

_No, no, no. I have to fix this._

“Wha—what’s wrong?” She quietly asks, brow furrowed, and suddenly concerned. 

“You’re drunk. I don’t want to take advantage. That’s not me.” Ben wants to soothe her wrinkled forehead and sad eyes. The sick feeling in his stomach isn’t helping the current situation either. 

“I’m barely drunk,” she rolls her eyes. “I’m, like, half tipsy. Don’t be so chivalrous.”

“But I _want_ to be chivalrous. You deserve that.”

“You’re sweet,” she dreamily remarks, suddenly straddling his thighs, arms loosely wrapping around his neck. There’s no way she can’t feel the outline of his erection straining against his jeans. It’s safe to say Ben is mortified, his face as red as a tomato and sweat gathering underneath his arms. But Rey doesn’t seem to mind, subtly grinding her hips, stirring his arousal even more. Her sly grin says it all. 

“I just… want to give you the best,” he struggles to get the phrase out, her treacherous movements putting him on edge. 

“Ben, do you know what I _really_ want?” She asks, determined, eyes locked onto his.

“W-what?” He stammers again, not even worried about how moronic he might sound. 

“I want you to fuck me.”

Ben nearly comes in that moment. The words fell from her mouth with so much confidence and vigor—she shows no sign of bashfulness, just fierceness and unwavering dominance. He always knew he had a thing for the dominatrix types—he’ll reluctantly admit he’s watched his fair share of femdom. Women might be surprised that a man as large as him longs to be tied up, controlled, commanded—maybe Rey could do that for him. Please, he thinks. 

She suddenly comes to the realization that there are too many clothes between them, beginning to undo the buttons of his flannel. There is no nervous trembling, no hesitation—she is undeniably sure of this, and Ben feels nothing but anxiousness.

_What if she is unimpressed?_

_Will I be enough?_

The look on her face gives him all the answers he needs. 

Awe, lust, and desire. She conveys all these emotions through the fervent kiss she graces upon his lips. Tongues sliding against one another, teeth clacking, moans intertwining with faint television noises playing in the background. 

Soon enough, Rey is stripped of her blouse, exposing Ben to her bralette—white, lacey, and barely there. He thinks he’s about to go into cardiac arrest, words escaping his already foolish brain. 

“You’re perfect,” he reverently whispers, hands cupping her breasts, tracing the lace covering her hardening nipples. 

His compliment doesn’t spark a reply but a trace of shyness appears on her face. It’s as if she wants to argue then decides against it, letting herself revel in his evident admiration. 

Without any warning, Rey reaches behind her back to unclasp her bralette, the fabric falling away from her breasts. Ben’s eyes widen, unable to shift away from the very obvious tits in his face. But not just any tits—Rey’s tits. Perfect, wondrous, glorious, lovely tits. He doesn’t even think before putting his mouth on them, sucking her right nipple to an even harder peak. The sound Rey makes should be a crime, a high-pitched squeak as if she was caught by surprise by his sudden enthusiasm. He pulls away, marveling at the dash of saliva causing her breast to glisten against his living room light. He gives her other breast the same treatment, the wet noises of his licking, sucking filling the room. 

Rey’s fingers card through his hair, causing a moan to rip through Ben’s throat. He loves this—her desperation apparent with every nibble, every suck. 

She continues grinding her hips against his ever-hardening cock—and despite their bottom halves still remaining clothed, Ben’s never been more turned on his life. If she keeps this up, he’ll undoubtedly come, pants still on, spend leaking through the crotch like some adolescent teenager. 

But she doesn’t quit, hips speeding up, finding pleasure as her clit rubs up against his achingly hard erection—and before he has time to stop himself, he’s coming, a drawn-out, raspy moan released against her plush lips. 

Rey slows down, eventually stopping her writhing hips to search his face for an answer to what just occurred. 

Ben keeps his eyes shut, too afraid to witness her reaction to his premature ejaculation. Still panting and shaking, Ben meets her gaze—and it isn’t anything he would have expected. 

She’s suppressing giddy giggles with a vaguely smug smirk. He immediately hides his face into her sweaty neck—he wants to lick it clean. 

“I’m sorryyyyy,” he drags out the apology, still drunk on his orgasm but also on her. He doesn’t have the heart to even be sheepish anymore—but maybe he should be. He fucked up dinner and now he climaxed before even being inside her. 

Great date you are. 

“It’s okay,” she says affectionately, pushing his hair back from his perspiring forehead once he finally pulls away from her neck. Her breasts are flush against him and Ben would make this his new permanent residence if he could. 

“I’ll make it up to you. Just… give me a minute.” 

“Yeah, you better. I think you owe me.” As her fingers scratch his scalp, Ben tries to focus on what she’s saying. “I mean, you burnt dinner. You could at least give me two orgasms. That’s only fair,” she goes on, that adorable laugh bubbling up from her throat, igniting a fire within Ben so strong that he’d be willing to give her absolutely anything. 

“Only two? I bet I can give you more,” he retorts, lifting her up, as she lets out a startled shriek. Her legs wrap around his lower back, heels touching the base of his spine, arms laced around his neck. 

Ben wants to protect her, hold her close to his chest, hear her heartbeat next to his, and cherish every breath she takes into her lungs. He’s grown accustomed to being alone, learned to tune out Dameron’s incessant dating advice, dead set on living a life of solitude. But now, as he holds Rey—his unsuspecting and enchanting neighbor—in his arms, her bare chest pressed against his own, her mouth muffling laughs into the side of his neck, he thinks a life lived alone isn’t one to be desired. 

He’ll do anything to make her stay the night—and every night after that.

And she does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Twitter @redeembensolo. :)


End file.
